Saturday, November 12, 2016

I don't know why I'm posting this here. Perhaps to get it off my chest without throwing it in the faces of the people who read Nobody In Particular or my Google+ posts. Or maybe just because I was careless with a click and ended up here, and found that after all this time, it's still active. And I found myself with an opportunity to vent.

About a year and a half ago, after my father died, I found myself in an online argument with a group of self-described Social Justice Warriors. And one of the more philosophical members of the group made an interesting point.

Being the change is important -- people need intuitive positive role models to look up to. This is the peace version.

Another way that change happens, a lot, is through social pressure. This is essentially what you're experiencing right now in this comment thread. We've gotten far with public shaming -- look at the recent Donald Trump news, to take a completely random example. This is the war version.

Telling other people what to do and "talking down to them" creates environments in which people are threatened with shame for not doing that. It's dirty, but it gets the job done. When they look for alternatives, that's the time they look at people who are being the change they want to see in the world. But, as a change consultant, I can tell you that people typically don't change without the impetus of a crisis -- Our job as warriors qua warriors is ultimately, in the very long scheme of things, providing that crisis.

And Donald Trump is now President-Elect of the United States of America. So... tell me again how your social pressure, threatening people with public shame and creating crises in people's lives is creating the change you want to see in the world? Tell me again how far you've gotten with those tactics in the past eighteen months. Tell me again, Ms. "Change Consultant," how the crisis you have "provided" has become the impetus to things better for anyone.

Look upon the riots, the smashed storefronts and the damaged cars, and tell me how your war is going.

Monday, November 15, 2010

The phone rings. It’s Madeline. She’s left her white t-shirt and bobby socks in the dryer. The same white t-shirt and bobby socks that I washed for her at eleven o’clock last night, when she informed me, in a panic, that she needed them for the dress rehearsal of her high school musical today.

She wants me to deliver them to the school for her. It’s only a dress rehearsal, for christ’s sake – what would she do if I wasn’t home? But I am home, and so I drive the clothes over to her school, rehearsing a response to her inevitable dismay when she finds out that they’re still damp – “Well, if you’d gotten them out of the dryer this morning, they’d have dried in your locker.”I’m annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of the afternoon, when I was busy watching The Human Centipede on Netflix.

She meets me outside, and thanks me profusely. “It’s alright,” I say. “I wasn’t doing anything important.” I go home and watch the rest of the movie.

It’s morbid curiosity that makes me do it. Three people joined, mouth to anus, by a mad doctor – who would make a movie like this? By the time it’s over, I don’t care. It’s an awful movie, and not in a good way. Its badness is utterly banal. There are inept attempts at escape, lots of over-the-top mugging by the mad doctor, and interminable periods of keening and weeping by the captives, all interspersed with long, ponderous shots of the boring interior decor. It’s not shocking. It's not suspenseful. It's not even interestingly gross. Three people joined by their digestive tracks – so what? The only thing I find disturbing about the film is that some viewers might get an erotic charge out of it. I feel embarrassed for the actors. Who would appear in such a movie?

But I can’t unsee it, so I get busy convincing myself that it’s a clever critique of capitalism, a wry metaphor for trickle-down economics, surely unappreciated by unsophisticated audiences. It ought to have screened at Cannes.

The absurdity of this is comforting.

I’m looking forward to the high school production of Bye Bye Birdie later this week.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

It’s another all-day meditation day, but from the time I wake up until 2pm, my mind is a neurotic dog, waiting for its owner to come home, gnawing the fur off its flanks and pacing, pacing, pacing. By the time it finally settles down, the rain has stopped and the sun is breaking through the clouds. I put the clothes I washed two days ago back on the line, hoping they’ll dry.

There are numb areas on the left side of my face, along my cheek and around my eye. I have vertigo, and my cognition is choppy, like my brain is skipping. It’s a migraine, but a painless one. No headache.

We learn metta practice. We’re instructed to develop a feeling of lovingkindness in ourselves, towards ourselves, and then to direct that feeling toward all other beings. I try to stop my mental griping and go along with it. Goenka intones, “May all beings be haaaaaapppppppyyy. May all beings be peeeeeeacefuuuulllll.” This makes me giggle, which makes lovingkindness easier.

Everyone in the meditation hall seems to be farting. Blow-hole girl next to me lets out a poot-poot-poot, and exhales hard through her nose. The knuckle-cracker and the cushion-rearranger are still at it. None of this bothers me.

At the break, I approach the assistant teacher. “Is the chanting designed to drive us crazy?” I ask. He looks pained. It’s Goenka’s way of doing metta, he says. It’s meant to calm and sooth us.

Another cold night. I use the blow dryer to warm up my toes and the inside of the sleeping bag before I crawl in. It’s freezing in the cabin. I want to leave, just get in my car and drive until I’m home. I talk myself out of it and count the hours until the retreat is over: 34.

I sleep, and dream that I’m strangling a little girl. In the dream, I realize that she’s me. She doesn’t seem to mind that I’m strangling her, but I stop anyway.

Day 10 – Noble Chatter

The group meditation ends at 9am, and Noble Silence is officially over, though men and women will remain segregated until the following morning.

People leave the meditation hall and go to the washroom or to their cabins, not speaking. I go to our cabin. Debi comes in a short while later. We sit quietly together, talking, as we’ve done for five days. Outside, the chatter begins. Debi and I listen. As the minutes pass, it grows in volume and excitement, punctuated by giggling.

“I have no desire to go out there,” Debi says. Nor do I. “We could be the shy recluses,” I say. “They have insecticide for those,” she says.

Lasagna and apple crisp for lunch. I join in the chatter and apologize for my incessant coughing. The girl who sat next to me says that at some point she realized that she’d begun exhaling loudly through her nose. She worries that it bothered people, that she’d become “The Exhaler” in everyone’s minds. I assure her that this isn’t the case, thus breaking the fourth precept. Another of the women dismisses my coughing as not particularly annoying, because she knew I couldn’t help it. The cushion-rearranger and the knuckle-cracker, however, really pissed her off.

I like these women more than I intended to. They’re bright and funny and full of life. Many of them are world-travelers. One who doesn’t know my name calls me Juniper, the name of my cabin. “You just seem like a Juniper,” she says. No one has caught my cold.

During the evening discourse, Goenka reveals that we have been living as renunciate monks and nuns for the last nine days, observing the five precepts, being housed and fed through the charity and care of others. I wish I’d been more in tune with this, because if I’d been viewing myself as a nun, I’d have been more at peace with the process. Instead, all I’ve been able to think about are the goddamn rules and the relentless misery.

I take a shower before bed, thinking I’ll avoid the morning rush. When I get out, five of the women are engaged in giddy conversation by the mirrors. The Exhaler is tells a story about her star-crossed romance. I wait for her to finish before drying my hair. It goes on for forty-five minutes.

I get into my bunk for the last time, and think, Why can’t I just leave? The course is over. What’s the difference if I leave now or in the morning? But I’ve been here for ten days. What’s twelve more hours?

Day 11 – Breaking Camp

In the morning, we get Goenka’s final discourse. His tone is very schoolmasterish as he urges us to continue meditating for two hours a day once we leave. This guy really over-delivers. He says, “Your liberation is up to you. No one can do this for you.” I almost lose it. I want to stand up in the meditation hall and scream, “What do you fucking think I’ve been fucking doing for the last ten – no, eleven – no, TWELVE fucking days? Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck you!” But I don’t.

We have a final meal together. I mention to the assistant teacher that I’ve been angry a lot of the time I’ve been here. He thinks this is great. Abe comes up behind me and wishes me a happy birthday. I respond in kind. He cracks his knuckles. The other women at the table wish me a happy birthday. “I turned 46,” I say. No one says, “Wow, you really don’t look it!” Clearly, they’re not prepared to break the fourth precept.

I introduce Abe to Debi, and he bombards her with questions about the massage school, interspersed with lots of self-deprecation and a variety of inappropriate remarks. She shoots me an amused look over his head. “He’s a puppy,” I mouth back at her.

It takes a long time to get everything cleaned up and put away. Debi and I decide we should eat something before we get on the road. Leaving the camp, I realize my eyes are not quite ready for driving. Ten days of having them closed much of the time has dulled my vision, and despite my eagerness to get home, I’m glad when we stop in Ketchum, the town nearest the camp, for a late breakfast.

Over eggs and Canadian bacon and elk sausage – and coffee! – Abe talks non-stop, jumping from one topic to another with a rapidity that leaves Debi and I awestruck. “Oh, look – a squirrel!” I say, teasing him. “Do you know what movie that’s from?” he says. “I don’t remember,” I admit. “Up,” he says, pleased with himself.

On the way home, I put on Nick Drake, which makes the aching in my chest worse, but it mellows Abe out. I try to pay attention to the sensations in my body as I drive, but it’s a relentless ache that will only leave me once I’m in my front door.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

2:30am. Three hours seems to be all the sleep my body wants, so I get up to take a leisurely shower while the other women sleep. I’m washing clothes in a bucket when they start to wander in at 4am. I ring out my sweatpants and t-shirts and hang them on the clothesline, pleased that I’ve laid claim to the scarce supply of clothespins before anyone else, but before long it starts to rain, so I take the clothes inside.

I’ve got my GoreTex and my fleece, and I know rain. I can do rain. I stroll the path between the dining hall and the cabins and smell the trees. The aspen have gone to gold. Their leaves twist and clatter in the wind. They’re dwarfed by the towering lodgepole pine and Douglas fir. I walk on the soft carpet of needles, hold my face up to the sky, marvel at the height of the trees, at the rings of cloud encircling the mountains. I stop to examine the resin-clotted bark of a lodgepole pine. At its base, I recognize the shiny dark leaves and blue berries of a salal bush. I’m back in my rainforest. Home. And now I’m longing, aching for Vancouver, which I’m not supposed to be doing. Clinging, clinging, clinging – dukka, dukka, dukka.

Below the cabins I hear water. There’s a stream down there, but the plastic ribbon prevents me from exploring. The squirrels have been putting up their winter stores since we arrived, and the weather doesn’t slow them down. One drops pine cones from sixty feet above, scampers down the trunk, races across the trail at my feet, and climbs on a stump to chatter and squeak at me, the interloper.

In the meditation hall, a bowel chorus plays. The moaning and sighing of the other students’ GI tracks sounds like whale song. Apparently Debi and I aren’t the only ones having trouble with the diet.

For a moment today, I get a fleeting glimpse of freedom. Just enough to shore up my resolve.

At the tea break, I have some hot-spiced apple cider along with my tiny glass of milk. I’m essentially fasting for 19 hours a day, and it’s fine. I fantasize about hamburgers and pizza when I’m lying in bed at night, but I don’t feel like I’m starving. If I really can’t bear it, I could always sneak out to my car and get the protein bars and almonds I’ve got squirreled away, but it’s very cold tonight, and wet. I lie in my bunk willing my feet to warm up and the cold from the window singes my face. I pull the sleeping bag over my head and drift off, wondering about carbon dioxide poisoning.

Day 8 – Daddy Issues

We’re supposed to maintain a meditative focus all day today, no matter what we’re doing. During the morning session in the hall, Goenka’s chanting is driving me mad. It seems louder – so loud, in fact, that it’s causing me pain. It’s a vuvuzela chorus, designed to make me suffer.

It’s still raining. It seems like everyone is coughing and sniffling. One guy to the left of me rearranges his cushion again and again. The buckwheat stuffing makes a hissing sound. Someone else cracks his knuckles. This, during the time when we’re supposed to be as still as statues. I’m sitting with my eyes closed, but the noise is bothering me. Another sound starts up on the men’s side, like someone is popping their lips open. Is someone really doing that? I listen for a while, and then in exasperation, I turn and glare in the direction of the noise. The men’s liaison is standing by the door. His eyes are open.

More chanting at the end of the hour, and I’m about ready to scream. When we take a break, the men’s liaison approaches the assistant teacher, says something to him, and points at me. They both look at me. I look back. Just try me, fuckers.

And then I realize that it was water. The sound that drove me into a rage was dripping water. But it was so loud. I must be getting a migraine.

Back in the cabin, I’m left to face the feeling of being trapped while someone drones at me on and on, and the helpless fury it evokes. Where does that come from? I know where it comes from. Funny that just yesterday the smell of the forest and the rain brought back a faint memory, and I thought, “I’ll have to call Dad and ask him about that time when…” He’s been gone since 1989.

I sit on my bunk, on my cushion, my sleeping bag tucked around me to keep out the cold, trying to calm down, trying to meditate, and it occurs to me that this may the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s surgery without anesthetic. Quitting drinking, quitting smoking, running a marathon, getting a divorce – none of those caused such acute discomfort as this.

After lunch, I discover a handful of walnuts wrapped in a napkin on my bunk. Debi. She’s been eating nothing but yogurt and honey for a few days, and now walnuts, which she’s sharing with me. Last night we agreed to go back to Noble Silence for these two days when we’re supposed to dedicate all our time to meditation. We last until 4:30. Debi comes into the cabin and says, “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” I laugh.

During the evening discourse, Goenka says that tomorrow we’re going to learn a new meditation practice. He says that over the past eight days, we’ve created a deep wound, and this practice will be like a balm on that wound. Later, for a moment, I feel the world drop away. I’m sitting at the back, and everything in front of me becomes insubstantial. I become transparent. The room disappears. The floor isn’t there. I panic.

I walk back to the cabin, slowly, meditatively, and there’s an animal standing by the door, quite still, staring at me. At first I think it’s a lynx, then it turns its head and I see the long nose. A coyote? Then it runs, flashing its bushy tail. It's a fox.

Later, when I’m returning from the bathroom, it’s there again. It lies down in my path, hops up, bounces around, and takes off into the trees. A playful fox.

Friday, October 15, 2010

I wind my blue cashmere-and-silk scarf around my neck and go to the morning meditation. For the retreat, I’ve given up makeup, perfume and cute outfits. The scarf has become my comfort object. It’s not a “bodily adornment” if I cover my mouth with it every time I cough.

My buckwheat hull-filled zafu is like a rock under my bruised tush. My neck is still giving me grief, and my back is a symphony of twinges and twangs. It occurs to me that repeatedly eliciting a vow not to leave before the ten days are up should have been a clue that they planned to torture us. I want to leave every day, and every day I talk myself out of it: I gave my word. It will upset other students. This may be a waste of time, but given the countless other days I’ve wasted, what’s ten more? Stretching after every session helps with the muscle aches. I’m going to be very limber by the time I go home, with much-improved posture.

At breakfast, I discovered hidden amongst the green and herbal teas, the Pero, Postum and Inka, a jar of actual instant coffee. It tastes like dust from a Mayan burial chamber, but with a little brown sugar and a lot of milk, it’s drinkable. Ah, caffeine!

During morning instruction, Goenka lovingly imparts the Vipassana technique. Three days of focusing on the little patch of skin below my nose has sharpened my awareness to the point where I can feel thousands of sensations every second, and now we’re to apply that awareness to the whole body, remaining detached, not identifying with the arising and passing away of each sensation. Equanimity of mind. Liberation within the framework of the body. This makes perfect sense to me.

Goenka goes on. He repeats every instruction two, three, four times. Every day, the same instructions. On and on. Who needs to take notes? I’m listening, trying to do as he says, going over my skin inch by inch, being aware of heat, cold, pressure, numbness, tingling, pain, etc., etc., etc. It’s not easy for me to divide my attention, listening and following directions, but I’m trying, I’m doing it, I get it, I’m there, and still he goes on, repeating anicca, anicca, anicca, over and over, until…

MURDEROUS RAGE. Shut up shut up shut the fuck up can’t you ever stop your braying you tiresome old donkey!

I go back to my cabin to continue practicing. It’s a good thing I can’t talk, because I’d be screaming curses right now. It takes me a long time to calm down.

More torture. Today we have to sit through each hour of group meditation without moving. I settle onto my zafu rock, prop my knees up with pillows, and resolve to hold this position until the hour is over. Goenka chants us into the meditation, and then in the quiet, I scan my body for sensations. After 40 minutes, my right hip is throbbing. The pain radiates over my right buttocks and down my right leg. I do not move. I focus on the pain. I do not identify with the pain. I pay attention to the variety of sensations within the excruciating, throbbing pain in my right hip and leg – anicca, anicca, anicca. Sensations are impermanent. They rise and fall, form and dissolve. They become like musical notes – the music of the body – and I can listen without shrinking away, without suffering. Equanimity.

When Goenka starts chanting at the end of the hour, my concentration is destroyed, and the pain is just pain again, not music – but I did it! I sat through the whole hour, in pain, without suffering. I am very proud of myself. I’ve learned a new skill, and what a variety of uses it will have! I’m impervious. I’m unshakeable. I’m a ninja.

After lunch, I stretch myself out on a rock and feel the sun lift the last traces of my cold up and out of my body. In an act of liberation, I remove my scarf and leave it behind in the cabin with my other clothes. I skip my afternoon cold medicine.

Afternoon meditation in the hall. I practice the technique, and feel the right side of my head acrawl with bugs – hundreds of them. Either the bugs are in my imagination or they’re not. Both of these possibilities amuse me. I begin to think of them as Schrödinger's Lice.

In the cabin, I sit on my bunk meditating and Debi approaches me with a tube of ointment held out before her. She points to it, points to her knee, and hands me the tube. “Thanks!” I say.

Oops. So much for Noble Silence. I put the ointment, a homeopathic liniment, on my knees even though my knees don’t hurt, because it seems rude not to, and because I can’t bring myself to pull down my pants and apply it my aching butt. When she’s back on her cushion, I go ahead and put it on my butt. The pain goes away almost immediately. I walk over and hand the tube back to her, bowing in thanks. I turn to go back to my corner of the cabin and strike one of the bed frames hard with my knee. Debi and I burst out laughing.

Some time later, I come into the cabin and the look on Debi’s face is so pained that I ask if she’s alright. It’s the diet, she says. It’s giving her tummy trouble. I empathize. I tell her not to be shy, to just let one rip if she needs to. She does.

We compare miseries. I’m feeling regret over some events in my life. She’s thinking about her relationship with her sisters. “I’m glad you’re my roommate,” she says. “I liked you right away.”

At the evening meditation in the hall, my cold symptoms return. I’m not wearing the scarf, so I sneeze in my hair.

Day 6 – Purification

Today is much like yesterday – waking after four hours sleep, tanning on a rock in the sun, practicing the technique for an hour at a time without moving, right hip throbbing – except with more chat and more tears.

I’ve decided that Guatama Buddha was more of a scientist than a spiritual leader. There’s nothing remotely spiritual about this practice. It’s entirely material, reality-based, practical. Everytime Goenka says “mind-and-body”, I want to correct him: It’s body-and-body. Only body. Nothing but body. He mentions sankharas a lot. These are the formations in the mind that arise from craving and aversion. Habit patterns. It’s these that we seek to overcome, to dissolve. Goenka would not have heard of neuroplasticity when he recorded these teachings 19 years ago, but that’s what we’re working with: the malleable nature of the brain and its responses, the music of the body. This excites me a great deal, and not just for its implications in pain management. To overcome habitual reactions of craving, aversion, suffering – dukka, dukka, dukka – seems to me a very rational path to liberation.

“I wonder,” Debi says, “if my body is taking this purification thing too far. I just lost one of my genital piercings down the plumbing.” Like Abe, Debi is a former Mormon from Ogden. She’s also a massage therapist. She went to the same school that Abe’s going to later this month. I decide I should introduce them. For days I’ve been fantasizing about the massage I’ll get when I get home. Hmm. Debi’s a massage therapist. But then I remember we’re prohibited from physical contact with other students, and there’s that Seinfeld episode. I offer to share my Beano with her.

I can’t stop thinking about my friend Leslie. She’d been a Vipassana meditator for fourteen years when I met her over a decade ago. She might be the wisest person I’ve ever known. She was an unfailingly kind and good friend to me, and I haven’t talked to her in three years, because of my own carelessness with friendship. I don’t normally feel this – or much of anything, really – but all I can do at the moment is feel. I have some tears over losing Leslie, and over other things that I’ve lost through similar defects of character. I’ll write Leslie a letter when I get home. Maybe she’ll forgive me.

I realize some things about my body, such as I tend to rest most of my weight on my right hip, which engenders the throbbing, and I have a subroutine running in my head that makes a musical loop out of ambient noise. In the past few days, I’ve heard electronic groove, 70’s pop, ragtime jazz, Indian, and house music. It’s entertaining, but I can’t make it stop.

I decide I’m glad of the sheets that keep the men and the women from seeing very much of each other. In the meditation hall there are no sheets, but we have to be disciplined, which precludes gawking. This spares me the trouble of preening and wondering if any of them are looking at me. It’s a kind of liberation.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

I wake up sniffling and coughing at 6am. After getting a flu shot and taking Vitamin C crystals for weeks to make sure I’d be healthy for the retreat, I have come down with a cold. The website asks students to stay away if they have the flu, but says nothing about a cold. Still, how unpleasant will it be to sit through ten hours a day of meditation and sleep in an unheated cabin when I’m sick, not to mention the certainty of passing the virus on to others? I consider canceling, but I’ve been preparing for this for two months and I don’t want to back out now. Kirt goes to the drugstore and brings home several boxes of cold medicine. I’m going.

I pick up Abe at his house in Ogden, an hour away. He’s tall, blond, good-looking, and very young. It’s his second time on this retreat. He asks me what made me decide to do it, and I tell him it’s my 46th birthday present to myself. “Me, too! When’s your birthday?” The 30th. “Mine’s the 29th.” He’ll be 21.

Abe is a talker. He confides that he’s been diagnosed with ADHD, Tourette’s, and Bipolar Disorder, and that he was taken from his home and put into foster care at the age of 12 when his younger sister made allegations that he’d sexually abused her, which he denies. He was in foster care for five years, but is now back with his family. He’s an ex-Mormon, but his family is still involved in the church. He dislikes porn and sluts (like his sister), and he tells me in all seriousness that the Obama administration is paying people to kill off elderly citizens. He wants to marry an Asian woman, because he believes them to be more loyal than American women. He’s starting school to be a massage therapist in October. Despite the prohibition against “bodily adornment” for old students, he’s wearing a do-rag with a skull on it. I assume he’ll take it off once we get to the retreat. Other prohibitions for old students: no food after the 11am meal, and no sleeping in “high or luxurious beds.”

Four hours later, we arrive at Camp Sawtooth and check in. Megan, the women’s liaison, will be the only person to whom I can speak freely for the next ten days. She directs me to a cabin called “Juniper”, in which I’ve already been assigned a bed. I’ll be sharing it with three other women – eight less than I anticipated. I’m given a form to fill out which asks me, among other things, to declare any non-prescription medications that I’ve brought with me. I tell Megan about my cold medication. She says she’ll have to check with the assistant teacher to see whether that’s permitted. I explain that I’ve brought hand sanitizer, and plan to be very careful with my germs, but I’ll go home if I must.

I keep filling out the form. It asks about the general state of my family life. “Sublimely happy,” I write. It says, “Please do not begin this retreat if you cannot commit to staying the full ten days. Can you commit to staying the full ten days?” I check the box for “yes.” I sign and hand in the form.

We’re instructed to finish unpacking, and to move our cars to the long-term parking lot further away from the camp. I unload my backpack, sleeping bag, and the bag containing my zafu and pillows. I chill out in the cabin until 5pm, when we’re to return to the dining hall for orientation.

The orientation consists of a review of the rules: No cell phones or mp3 players. No reading or writing materials. No tobacco products. No food. No talking to or making eye-contact with other students once Noble Silence takes effect. No leaving. The men and women will walk on separate paths, and sleeping and eating areas will be separated by sheets hung so that we cannot view each other. We’re to stay inside the designated areas of the camp, and not venture beyond the pink ribbons that have been strung along paths and behind cabins. Megan asks us to turn in any personal items or contraband, or to put them in our cars for the duration of the retreat. She invites us to turn in our car keys. I decline to turn in my keys, and I return to my car to stow my writing materials and my e-cigarettes. I sit in the car smoking. Leaving these behind is going to be hard, but I have a supply of nicotine patches. It’s the pen and notebook I’m really struggling with.

The last dinner we’ll eat for ten days consists of vegetarian soup and salad. Because I’m constantly wiping my runny nose, I’m using the hand sanitizer often, but I forget to use it before I pick up the soup ladle to serve myself. I sit eating my soup and imagine my cold germs spreading to every woman in line behind me.

When dinner is over, we’re allowed to talk to our fellow students (of the same gender only), and discuss cabin logistics. Afterwards, we’ll go to the meditation hall for the first sit, and Noble Silence will thereafter take affect for the duration of the retreat. I meet two of my cabin mates, Debi and Jen. The third has not appeared. I explain that I have a cold, that I considered staying home, but that someone was depending on me for a ride, so I came. I promise to be very careful with my germs. They confess that they snore. I have earplugs. We work out that I have the only alarm clock between us, so I’ll be responsible for the 4am wake-up. They seem nice enough, but I fear they will not like me.

In the bathroom before the meditation, a woman abruptly sticks out her hand and introduces herself to me. “She’s terrified,” I think. Perhaps I’m projecting.

At the meditation session, more rules. Or rather, the same rules over again. We’re asked to repeat the vows of refuge, and some other stuff I don’t remember. And NO LEAVING!

It’s 9pm. Bedtime. I toss and turn for an hour and a half, and then, against the rules, I take the single half of a sleeping pill I’d brought with me.

Day 1 – Lifeboat

I wake up at 7am. My alarm didn’t go off. Jen and Debi and I pull on our clothes and make a frenzied dash down the forest trail to the dining hall. Breakfast was scheduled for 6:30am, and we’d been instructed not to be late. I have oatmeal with stewed prunes and fresh fruit, and green tea. If my cabin mates didn’t dislike me before, they surely do now.

8am in the meditation hall. I sit cross-legged on my cushion in my assigned space at the back. The recorded voice of the teacher, Goenka, directs us to focus on the breath, being aware of the sensations in the nostrils. I look across the room for Abe. He’s wearing his do-rag. I focus on my breath, the sensation of air moving in my nostrils, but my coughing every few minutes distracts me. And everyone else, too, I’m sure. After the formal meditation is over, we can stay in the hall or go back to our cabins to meditate for another two hours, keeping our attention on the breath. We’re allowed to shift positions as needed, the teacher says, and to lie down during meditation in our cabins, but only for five minutes, so as not to drift off to sleep.

9am, back at the cabin. I lie down. After ten minutes, I’m dozing. I dream that I’m on a lifeboat. Attached to the bow is a long, thin bungee cord. There is a pen tied to the end of it. I find a notebook under one of the benches. I wake up and climb back out of my bunk to sit on my cushion. Jen is across the cabin, sniffling, sniffling, sniffling. She’s caught my cold. They’ll all hate me. I want to leave.

11am, lunch. Lentil soup and salad, steamed vegetables and rice. I put tamari dressing on everything. After washing my dishes in the pans at the back of the hall, I approach Megan, explaining that Jen has caught my cold, and I would like to share my cold medicine with her, but don’t know how to do this if I can’t talk to her. Jen, she says, has left the retreat. She did not seem to have a cold. I mention waking up late. “A lot of people did,” says Megan. The person ringing the morning wake-up gong didn’t come to the doors of the cabins, as he was supposed to. Later, I’ll learn that this was Abe. It comes to me that Jen was not sniffling because she’d caught my cold, but because she was crying. What a relief!

Back in the cabin, I look at my high bunk and decide it might also be luxurious. I pull a mattress off an unused bunk and place it atop mine. This gives me eight inches of foam. I try to meditate from 1 to 2:30pm as I’m supposed to, but this contemplative environment seems to have opened the floodgates, and my mind whirls with memories, memories, memories, ideas, plans, memories.

2:30 pm, meditation hall. “The mind is a wild animal,” says Goenka. He chants for several minutes at the beginning and end of each meditation. He has an awful voice, like a chorus of frogs. My mind is a terrified moose, careening along the highway, dodging cars.

3:30 to 5pm, meditation in the hall or in the cabin. I opt for the cabin, so my coughing will not distract others, who all, I’m sure, hate me.

5pm, snack break. Fresh fruit and ten. I have a banana, half a peach, an orange. I will come to regret this.

6pm, meditation in the hall, followed by the evening discourse from 7 to 8:15, and then meditation again until 9. I have several knots in my back from sitting in meditation posture for so long. I adjust my posture, only to have new knots form. My insides spasm and rumble. The diet does not agree with me. There is a video recording of Goenka from 1991. He’s gray-haired, with plump, droopy cheeks that merge into jowls, a rubbery bottom lip that juts out beyond his thin top lip, baggy eyes and a baggy neck. He has a lilting Indian accent. I dislike him. In fact, I dislike everyone.

In the bathroom, preparing for bed, one of the other women is washing her face. She has terrible acne. Before I can stop myself, I think, “Pizzaface! Haha! Pizzaface, pizzaface, pizzaface!”

I’m as appalled as you are.

Day 2 – Desperation

Debi has acquired an alarm. It goes off at 3am. I jump out of bed, turn on the lights, start dressing, and then look at the wall clock. I turn off the lights, go back to bed, and commence coughing for an hour.

At the 8am meditation, Goenka says, “Begin with attention on your respiration,” but what I hear is, “Welcome to your desperation.”

I’m tired. I sit on my cushion, but I keep falling asleep and tilting over until my inner ear wakes me and I jerk upright. I have a succession of short dreams. In one, I’m on a train traveling through farmland. From behind an oak tree, Gladys Knight and three Pips emerge, singing “Midnight Train to Georgia.” In another, a girl crawls toward me along the floor, around the other meditators. She pushes a stainless steel bowl at me. It’s filled with pages of notes and crude pencil drawings.

After lunch, I march back and forth along the path between my cabin and the dining hall until I’m sweating. 235 steps. I meditate in my cabin when I allowed to, but when I go to the meditation hall, the warmth makes me cough and cough. Several others are coughing and sniffling now, too. I’m Typhoid Mary. I leave my cold medicine and ibuprophen on one of the bunks near Debi’s with a note inviting her to use it if (when) she catches my cold.

3:30pm Meditation is impossible. My mind is a hamster on a wheel – spinning and spinning, going nowhere. I recall things that Abe said on the drive down, and plan how I’ll rebut them on the drive back: “Obama is not paying people to kill the elderly,” “Women should not be referred to as sluts.” I think about how I will argue with this poor, deluded boy. I wonder if Abe is dangerous. Is it even safe to be in the car with him? What if he has a knife? I become very afraid.

My neck, which I strained last week lifting weights, sings with pain. My shoulder aches. My guts are churning. I’m bloated with gas. Despite all my preparation, all my careful planning to avoid discomfort, I’m in misery. I want to be at home, sitting on the couch with Kirt, watching a movie and eating popcorn, with Sweet Pea purring in my lap. Instead, I sit on the toilet and try unsuccessfully to not make noise.

I forgo the fruit at 5pm, have a small glass of milk and tea, instead.

6pm in the meditation hall, I feel something crawling in my hair. A bug. Two or three bugs. On my way to bed, I brush my hair vigorously. I find a bug. Lice? I consider setting my hair on fire. I run outside in my pajamas to find Megan, telling her that I got lice from the mattress in my cabin. She asks me what it looked like, and I describe it: black, shiny shell, half a centimeter long, teardrop shaped. She says it sounds like a deer tick. I ask if she knows what lice look like. She does not. Neither do I. She takes me into the bathroom and sits me down on a bench, going through my hair layer by layer. She finds nothing. I guess we’ll know in a day or two, I say. I go to bed.

Day 3 – In the Belly of the Whale

TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY!!! Debi’s alarm goes off at 3:30. Jesusfuck. My ass hurts. For breakfast, I leave off the fresh fruit and the prunes, try peanut butter and yogurt and brown sugar on my oatmeal instead. No gas, but I react to the peanut butter. I’ll switch to tahini tomorrow.

As soon as I can manage it, I take a hot shower and blow-dry my hair, almost burning my scalp a few times in my zeal to discourage the bugs. I wonder what will happen if I really do have lice. We’ve taken vows to follow the Five Precepts for the duration of the retreat, which include not killing any being. Megan said that people going to and from camp can bring things for the students, if necessary, but how will they justify killing the bugs? Because others will catch them? I don’t plan on shaving my head as part of my practice here. Will I have to leave in order to avoid breaking the first precept? I decide that I’ll enjoy presenting the organizers with this conundrum. I become philosophical about the bugs. They’re just bugs, after all. I picked up worms when I traveled in the Middle East, and had legions of bedbugs feasting on me almost every night – in a hotel room in Cairo I counted 19 bites on my face, alone. I survived. I can live with lice for a while, if I have to.

In the meditation hall, I notice that the woman next to me exhales vigorously and noisily every so often. Right after I have a coughing fit? It seems like it. She sounds like a whale expelling air through her blowhole. She’s doing it to shame me, I’m certain of it. Bitch.

At 5pm, I have milk instead of fruit again. This, plus avoiding cruciferous vegetables and taking Beano before I eat my lentils and rice seems to have solved my GI distress. Everything about this retreat seems designed to make us suffer. Including the food, including Goenka’s hideous chanting. They want us to be as miserable as we can possibly be, with no escape, no comfort, no relief.

In his talk, Goenka makes a joke about torturing us. Everyone laughs. Tomorrow, he says, we’ll learn the Vipassana technique – the key to our liberation. I can’t wait. Meditating on my breath and the sensations on the patch of skin between my nose and top lip for the past three days is about as much fun as staring for hours at a black spot on a wall. Today, Goenka reminds me of Yoda. He has a voice like Yoda, espouses wisdom like Yoda, in a vernacular not unlike Yoda’s. I decide that Yoda was modeled on Goenka. This makes me like him better. Now imagine Yoda intoning at the low end of his range, in language that sounds like gibberish, and you have a sense of what the chanting is like.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Several things I have read lately (plus one movie), all fantastic, converge around a central idea: the thrust of 20th century art was to blur the distinction between art and everything else. The details of each are a bit beside the point, but here's the list:

Exit Through the Gift Shop, a film by Banksy, a graffiti artist most famous for a series of images he painted on the wall between Israel and Gaza, but also renowned for inserting his own work onto the wall of the Tate Modern.

Seeing is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees, a book about the California artist Robert Irwin, who began at some point creating installations that were as much about ordinary life as anything else. Lately he's been doing landscape design as well.

Alex Ross's article about John Cage in this week's New Yorker. The piece speaks in particular about a Cage composition that is 4 minutes of silence.

Andrei Condrescu, The Posthuman Dada Guide. Rules on how to be Dada, except that to be Dada is to reject rules.

More stuff, too. The list, as I say isn't what's important. It's just the stain of thought that separating out some stuff and calling it "art" is a mistake -- that really the idea of art should implicate everything we do.

This idea leads me to a question for which I have no answer. How is politics art? What way might there be of handling ourselves, making decisions, and the like would result in a process that was aesthetically pleasing. Failing that, isn't there a way of doing things that is not nauseating? Every time I hit upon what passes for "debate," I'm only a degree or two of separation from somebody saying something at best stupid and at worst noxious. Surely there is another way, and given that other models have failed, why not art?